I’m not sure what it was about the conversation or even what we talked about but at some point it dawned on me that my daughter, my firstborn, the apple of my eye, was carefully managing our conversation.
You know what I mean, right? We’ve all done it. We seek to maintain a calm environment. For God’s sake, don’t rile up the Olds! We know not to to mention the army after Uncle Bob’s had that second Budweiser and we don’t bring up Grandma’s diamond ring when Aunt Anne’s around, nor do we talk about great stepmoms to sensitive birth moms or cheating at cards around Aunt Dot and we obviously don’t mess around with Jim, everyone knows that. When Dad talks in mixed company about how he’s never made a bed or folded laundry, because that’s a wo…we cut in and ask a question about skinning a deer or driving a stick shift. That’s called triage and we do it without thinking. One just learns these things.
But somehow, I never thought of myself as someone who might occasionally need to be managed. Then again, I’m still sometimes amazed that I have adult children. When did that happen? I know I was there but sometimes it feels like I drifted off under a tree and slept for 15 years, during which time everyone and everything got older except my brain, which still harbors a tree-climbing, free-styling hoyden who definitely does not need to be managed by her children thank you very much.
And yet, she’s so skilled I almost didn’t notice, so she’s been doing this for awhile now. This is a developing situation, folks. Stay tuned for updates. And, please, share your stories. Do you have an emotional manager?